#DidYouWriteToday? – 420

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I received an email:

“I tried on your last name today.
It dangled like hoop earrings.
The wind wanted to carry it away
But it just made me more noisy in my travels.

It hurt
Just a slight pinch
It hurt
Like love
Trying not to focus on the pain doesn’t ease the anticipation
Looking at forever
Didn’t make today sting any less
I just want you to know
I went through with it.”

I read this, thinking,
Is that why the email before this says
“I don’t need you”?
I must have been another hole in her head.

#DidYouWriteToday? 411: When The Poem You Wrote is Lovely, But Isn’t The One You Need To Write, Volume 72

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There’s a lump in my esophagus
That starts at the stomach
Rises to my throat
Then back
A story arch of regurgitated fear
That has more sequels that John McClain

You know what they say about old habits
And this one has returned with a vengeance
Just when I think I can get rid of it
The sickness reappears

That poem is this poem’s medicine
Temporary oppressor of symptoms
But never a more potent cure than what’s already divinely inside me
But yet here I am
Feeling fine
Feeling better

I took something
Disregarding the label
Warning: contents will cause:
Inflation of ego
False sense of security
Temporary sigh of relief
Shortness of breath

The list of side effects is longer than the poem
And I wonder
Why didn’t I just write this earlier?


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(I hadn’t posted anything in awhile. Sometimes, songs are on your heart. A freewrite inspired by this.)

Look at her.
So weightless, she only knows how the ground feels when preparing to leap again.
Humans aren’t made so light
She defies the gravity of mortality so gracefully
Life is lived in pirouettes
When things reach their dramatic peak,
She just keeps spinning.
Even her pleas are dance moves with different interpretations

Freedom is chasing dreams dangling above your fingertips
Being flexible enough to maneuver while the universe is your stage
With everyone knowing this is your number
There is art to life
Have a choreographed plan
Keep your chin up
And remain on your toes.

The Poem About Nothing

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Confession time.
I get a little sick of writing about love.
My reason is because if I was so good at defining it,
I would never mess it up.
And I wouldn’t be removing the stitches from my still-bleeding heart
To sew sentences about the scars…

Fuck. No.
This almost turned into another one of those poems.

Where I talk about the life-changing experience that is being my sexual partner.
Exaggerating all the positive and overlooking the awkward.
Because no one likes flaws
Unless I’m being self-aware
Penning carefully crafted confusion
The artistic illusion of self-analyzation
That helps you find personal solutions to similar problems responsible for sleepless nights.
I sit up, weaving all these poetic devices
Just to macramé another way to convey,
“Hey! I’m insecure!”

Or I write outside myself
And document the perils of the world surrounding.
Remaining astounded at how there is no respect for the royalty in my veins.
Where and when did my crown become a jester’s hat?
I’m in the castle but have no shot of adorning the coat of arms
And if I’m no longer entertaining, they’ll use their arms
To keep me just out of reach of equality
Or put a gunshot in me if they’re alarmed.

Nope, I will not start.

You know what I want to write about?
Absolutely not a damn thing.
Let my thoughts roam and put the pen under their control.
Holding the dividing rod and searching for gold stanzas of 100% pure random
Not erasing question marks hoping they reveal answers
Instead of seeing myself in assorted shapes like a hall of funhouse mirrors,
I just dwell in unsurety
Because I see the unknown much clearer.

Don’t tell me nothing has no value
When we hope for more zeros in our paychecks.
Next to substance, nothings make anything amplified.
Since my brain is so tired, I need to allo it to rest.

A poem about nothing is me acting like I’m fine.
Even though I say, “it’s nothing,”
There’s still something on my mind.

I did it again.
Guess no matter what I write about,
Insecurity will eventually creep in.

Fool Of Me

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(Editor’s Note: I wrote to another one of Ms. Ndegeocello’s songs.¬† It was also interesting writing something I couldn’t readily relate to. I hope you enjoy.)

Remember when you filled my heart with joy.
Was I blind to the truth?
If she comes in the morning
I mistook her orgasms for yours, and
Your smiles for sunrise.
And now, you won’t give me the time of day.

A fool of me.

Playing the cards dealt.
Who knew the Queen of Hearts could trump a Big Joker?
You set me aside like our game was I Declare War.
Now matching starts battles
And we’re determined to get best of each other

That you don’t care
You let me inside your castle walls
I believed I’d be king of your court.
So I let you make me jester, hoping that was enough.
Juggling my dignity with the irrationality of love
Dropping neither, yet holding on to nothing.
My act was neverending.
Thinking I could keep you here
Tried to ease your fears of being opened up by using laughter.
Now I can’t touch you anymore.

What kind of fool am I?
Looking like a clown didn’t matter to me
As long as you threw pie
Embarrassment tastes like sugar.
Fleeting giggles from you as I lick off the shame
I want to kiss you.
Just so we can share a semblance of all we used to
But you just left me deserted.

A fool of me.
Undo the string from my limbs.
I’m not your puppet.
Remove your hand from my shirt and the knife from my back
It’s time I spoke for self.
Leave my seat belt unbuckled.
Find another to participate in this experiment
Because I refuse to be your heart’s crash test dummy

Reoccuring flukes become frequent coincidences
Repeated coincidences become manipulated accidents.
With your airbag in my face, I thought you had prioritized my safety.
But you blinded me and placed me in a trial-an-error vehicle
Oblivious to the surrounding, crumpling ventricles.
While you let someone else ride comfortably in your improved model.
And I only have whiplash from the shock of turning my neck the wrong way.

Does he look at you with the pain that I do?
Smell you through my head trauma.
I feel like such a stooge.
Been poked in the eyes and bopped on the head for your amusement far too many times.
I feel like such a fool.
Tell me why.

Temperature Change

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It is heartwarming to have someone who makes you utter the phrase, “I care.”
The flame is just right and burns rather easily.
But just how pleasant is that tepid temperature when care is a downgrade from how you were feeling?

You used to be so in love. Now you’re just concerned with their well-being.
You wish them life
You wish them success
And all the good they deserve.
You wish them health
You wish them love
But you don’t want to give them yours.
She is riding high
But when I lower the dial.
She’ll notice the change in climate.

“I care.”
A sentence that gives wings to a cloudy heart.
If there is a but placed
To fill that empty space
It still won’t cushion the fall.
Readings too hot for Celsius.
Farenheit gripes because our flame was measured as “way too tall”
Degrees so astonomical that once I remove my own heat.
Her own 98.6 are no longer enough.

Agonizing to tell another she doesn’t inspire as much
Heated smiles become lukewarm smirks as another fire is hushed.
Watch the mercury fade to a trace through a telescope.
The planet’s thermometer dissolves,
And its orbit widens until it’s Plutonian.
Celestial bodies replaced by the Sun who wants his solar system rearranged.
Even though it hurts to see lifeless forms rotate
There is only one world, one Earth, that he needs to revolve.

The cloudy heart descends.
Her exhales are like fog.
You breathe a sigh of relief,
She breathes one of disappointment.
She’ll always have a piece of your core,
But will never be your inferno’s spark.

When compared to “I love you’s” flame, “I care” is the extinguisher:
Very flammable when combined, but when needed, it dowses that blaze.
With no heat nearby, soon she’ll being to shiver.
Sudden change in her spirit
Unprepared for the temperature change.

Lonely Therapist

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Here I stand.
Waiting for one to bare soul
So I can feel the words move.
They speak as if they have a lot to prove,
And I will do my best to make sure they are understood:
But what about me?
The ultimate listener.
Master of the servant’s role in one-sided conversation.
The therapist with no follow-up questions to ask.
So disciplined in my craft because I never talk back,
And they like the output I have in these exchanges.
But is it wrong to want my own feedback?
Maybe that’s my test:
To be the only pawn kings and queens must check
In order for their moves to be intact.
I want to speak, too.
I am always alive
Yet am never acknowldged
Sometimes, never touched
Unless I have physical issues.
Can you hear me?
The voices in my head do not mute the voices in my head.
There is a lot of talking,
But no one is listening,
To me.

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